Yet Death We Fear
by Estoma
Summary: Three places Cato contemplates dying, and one where he does not. For Ella, a late birthday fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: For Ella, as a belated birthday present. Here is the first chapter of your birthday fic. I hope you like it, and keep an eye out for the next chapters. You will get the Clato you wanted x**

**Written using the prompt, 'quarry' from the Epic Challenge, in Caesar's Palace forum. **

1. The Old Quarry

The rising sun is just a sliver of molten gold, peering out from between two jagged peaks to the east. For the most part, the soft light of pre-dawn still holds sway over the scene, but the sun is just starting to paint the sides of the mountains a bright orange. Soon, they'll be outlined as if in fire.

Dawn's gentle light softens the rough edges of the abandoned quarry and 600 feet down, the bottom is swathed in shadow. Streamers of mist coil around, grasping, finger-like to the rocks to haul themselves up out of the bowl. Behind the quarry, the cluster of solid, stone and weatherboard buildings that make up the career academy are still indistinct in the dim light.

Most of Kelly's Range is shadowed too, though the sun's glow is spreading out from the center, illuminating the crags and cracks and the narrow switchback roads. Kelly's Range forms a near impassable barrier between Marble-the capital of District 2-and the eastern villages. It's a grueling, two day drive, that has the trucks' engines straining and their loads of stone swaying dangerously, to get through the one pass in the mountains.

One year, Alliane's Pass was blocked by a fall of rock that completely buried the precarious road. It took two weeks to clear away the chunks of rubble, and longer to make it suitable for trucks again. All up, it was a month before 'The Alley' could be used again. Meanwhile, the scattering of eastern villages rationed their food, waiting for the deliveries that were held up. Production in the quarries slowed to a crawl and eventually deliveries via hovercraft were sent out from Marble to keep the stonecutters on their feet.

When the rubble was finally cleared, the crushed remains of the jeep whose passage had triggered the fall was found. It was flattened to scrap metal; no part of it was more than a foot high. Only the smell of rotting meat testified that the driver was inside; there were hardly any recognizable pieces of him. Only a hand, flattened and spread out as the knuckles bones were crushed, remained.

Gradually, the light spreads across the Kellies. Locals simply call them that; the same way they call the oldest pub in Marble, 'the victor'. Its real name is nearly forgotten. A man might even say, of his wife, while leaning on the bar at the Victor, "She's more of a bitch than the Kellies." His friend might jovially reply, with a dig in the ribs, "Only one way through that…the Alley."

As the sun clears the top of the Kellies, the mist in the bowl of the quarry burns away and the cuts to the bare stone are exposed. Blackberry canes have taken root down there and from a height, it's impossible to see their delicate, four petaled blooms. Up close, the flowers look very similar to their wild rose cousins but from above, the tangle of canes and leaves looks like the dregs left in a forgotten cup of tea.

By the time it is fully light, Cato is stiff and sore from sitting on the edge of the quarry. His skin feels as cold as the stone he's sitting on. Rolling his shoulders and neck, he looks over the mountains, and then down into the quarry. When he swings his legs out over the emptiness, his heels disturb a rock. With a clatter, it begins to fall and he holds his breath until it hits the bottom.

When Cato hears footsteps on the track behind him, he doesn't turn.

"Hi, Fallon," he says. He's used to hearing Fallon's tread as his trainer jogs around the track with him, or challenges him in a sprint. As one of the younger victors, Fallon believes in hands-on training.

"Get away from the bloody edge," Fallon says angrily, but he can't hide the edge in his voice. He stops about ten feet away from the drop.

"Scared?" Cato climbs slowly to his feet, and just to prove he can, he leans out over the edge until he feels his center of gravity shift. He doesn't miss Fallon's muffled curse. Somewhere along this stretch of quarry, Fallon's father, also a victor, jumped to his death. Cato's not sure why he's taunting his mentor now, and he flushes guiltily as he steps away.

Fallon takes a couple of deep breaths. "My uncle always said not to stand on the edge unless you _want _to go over."

"Sorry," Cato mutters.

"It's okay, it's that kind of day," Fallon shrugs. "You wanted some time alone before the reaping?"  
"Something like that." Cato hesitates. "Fallon, what were you thinking about, before you volunteered?"

Fallon scuffs his feet against the stone and gazes out over the Kellies. Then he shifts his eyes to the Western Tiers that can just be seen in the distance. Cato remembers that Fallon's home village is tucked away somewhere in those mountains.

"I was wishing I'd seen my sister to say goodbye. I hadn't seen her for five years, and she couldn't make it to Marble to see me off because her baby was nearly due."

"You weren't…you weren't thinking about dying, then?"

"No, I don't think the possibility of dying even seemed real to me until after the bloodbath. It's something you should try to avoid. But, Cato? Make sure you say goodbye to your family, properly, just in case."

"Thanks."

"Anyway, reaping's in three hours, and you won't get a chance to relax until tonight, so do you want a quick run now, get some energy out?" Fallon suggests. "Once around the quarry?"

Fallon sets a hard pace that Cato has to push to maintain, especially in the cold morning air. He can focus only on his feet slapping the dirt and stone track and mercifully, everything else is driven from his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Prompt: stars, from the Nova Challenge in Caesar's Palace forum. **

2. The Train

Stars spatter the sky like chips of stone, flying from the quick strike of a pickaxe. Most of them are arranged just as randomly, over the inky black canvas, but a few have the grace to form patterns, and stories for those who have an imagination.

Out on the small fishing vessels in District 4, those not large enough to warrant a peacekeeper or two to keep an eye on the crew, each constellation has a story. They are told by the old men, whose faces and hands have been turned to leather by the elements. In their lilting accents, they tell of the maiden, who glances shyly at the hunter and of his trials to bring her the skin of Ursus to warm her during the cold, celestial winter. Of course, the stories only begin once the boats have cleared the port and the peacekeepers on the wooden docks.

In District 2, they see the same stars though occasionally they have different names; the pot becomes the club and the maiden is the victim. The hunter stays the same. It is only the younger generations though, who use these names; those few old enough to remember a life before the Hunger Games are able to call a pot, a pot. But they stay quiet. The rather clipped accent of District 2 is ill suited to story telling, but more than that, the elders know that stories will not help their children.

The success of the career project isn't based just on physical training. The mental element is just as important, for what use is a sword in a strong hand if the muscles hesitate that deadly fraction of a second? That is why District 4's career program has always been something of a joke; they train their children to kill, and fill their heads with stories of heroism and sacrifice.

District 2's elders know that stories of brave and noble heroes who would fight to the death to defend the virtue of a maiden, are deadly for their career children. They keep quiet, and know their stories will die with them.

Outside the train window, the landscape is dark and blurred. The train speeds towards the Capitol, making most of its journey on bridges elevated above the canyons and ravines, for to cross from District 2 to the Capitol, some of the most rocky and inhospitable land must be crossed. It is not an overnight trip and the train will arrive in the Capitol before midnight. District 2 is always one of the first to arrive.

Mountains loom like great, dark hulks in the night and quickly rush past. The stars, seen through the window are really the only things that are still clear. As he leans on the windowsill, face so close to the glass that his breath makes condensation, Cato can feel the vibrations of the train in his bones. He gazes out the windows and up at the sky, using his hand to stop the reflection. Through his small patch, Cato can see the victim with the trail of stars that in some districts mark her girdle, but for him, show the cut of a sword. He swallows and looks away, and if he were superstitious, he might start thinking about omens.

Cato isn't afraid of death. No young career should be. After all, what is there to fear in oblivion? When a career dies, there is no shame, unless they died crying or begging for their mother. In District 2, a staunch death is something worthy of pride. Cato knows if he isn't successful in the games, his body will be escorted back by Fallon or Brutus or one of the other mentors, and they'll speak personally to his family of his bravery. Cato knows if he does die, it will be bravely; he will not beg for it.

But that's what he fears; not being dead, but dying. As he looks down at his hands and away from the ill-fated constellation, Cato images dying. For him, it has all the humiliation of Brutus' backhand, and the disappointment of Lyme's quiet shrug. There's the thought of his mother turning slowly away from the screen, and his picture projected into the sky for the other tributes to cheer at because their biggest competition is dead.

But what really makes Cato's stomach heave and the bile rise to burn his throat, is the thought of teeth and knives and intestines slipping through his grasping fingers onto the dirt. He pictures the slight of another tribute's legs, standing over him, or maybe they'll crouch down with their knife dripping his own blood into his eyes.

Cato doesn't fear oblivion; he dreads dying and a pain so gut wrenching that he will beg for it to be over, regardless of the million viewers across Panem.

"What're you thinking about?"

At her voice, Cato spins around, trying to hide his shock in an angry snarl. Clove grins smugly; she was always quiet on her feet when they were training.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Not really, I can guess," she says off handedly and begins to spell out, "D-E-A-"

"Shut up," Cato growls. To prove he's stronger, to prove he's not afraid, he lunges and traps her hands in his, puts his big feet on hers so she can't move. He jerks her arms up above her head and pins them against the wall, bearing down until his knuckles whiten and Clove squirms.

"What are _you_ thinking about now?" he asks in a low voice, hardly coherent for the snarl in it.

With a smirk, Clove swings her pelvis forward, until he can feel her through his jeans.

"I still know what you're thinking about," Clove whispers.

"Fuck you," he mutters, releasing her. Clove waits until he turns around before rubbing her wrists painfully.

"Well, that's nice," she snorts. "I only came to tell you that we'll be in the Capitol in an hour. Brutus wants to go over some things with you."

"I'm coming, okay?" he snaps.

When Clove leaves on silent feet, Cato looks up at the sky again for a moment. The train has changed direction slightly and now the hunter is in full view. Cato smiles as he turns back to find his mentors.


	3. Chapter 3

3. The Tribute Tower. Prompt: Opulent, from the Silver Challenge at Caesar's Palace forum.

Inside the tribute tower it is very quiet. The thick walls muffle the sounds of the party out in the streets that is only a block away, dulling the music to a soft thump just on the edge of hearing.

The designers of the tower have gone to the effort to make the tributes feel at home. Some of the walls have been turned into canvases for pictures that are so real, it is as if a photograph has been enlarged and placed there. It probably has. In the foyer of District 2's floor is a panoramic shot of the Justice Building in Marble. It is pearly white, and with the sun hitting it, the veins in the marble columns sparkle like silver. The Capitol flag flies high from the pole out the front, facing the square. A few feet below it, the crossed pickaxes of district 2 snap and dance in the obviously brisk wind.

It is not the only wall to be turned into a scene from home. The dining room contains a 360-degree view, looking out across the mountains as if one was standing on the reaping stage in Marble. There are the Kellies of course, and the Western Tiers. The slightly gentler southern range, the Granite Hills, that forms the border between Districts 1 and 2 are where Cato's home village, Shale, is and he is sure to sit at the table where he can see them.

Last is the rugged range simply called 'The Border'. There are no villages there, and snow lingers on the mountains' shoulders even in the height of summer. Beyond it, there is nothing but more mountains and rocks, and impassable ravines. It is not even worth scouting for new quarries. From the center of the range rises the aptly named Spire. It is the tallest peak in District 2, indeed in Panem.

The walls of the bedrooms are also decorated in a similar pattern. The first night in the tower, Fallon kindly guided Cato the third room down the corridor, the one with a close up portrait of the Granite Hills along one wall. It's a summer day, testified to by the blue sky without a single cloud to mar it. The mountains' sides are free of snow. Cato always falls asleep facing that wall, the few nights he has been in the Capitol.

It's ironic, he thinks, that among all the opulence of the Capitol, they have decided to cover the walls with images of the bare, brown and grey rocks that make up most of District 2, when they could have covered them with gold.

The last night before the games is a special, introspective time for mentors as well as tributes. At the dining room table, Lyme and Brutus sit without talking, he at the head and she at the foot. Their hands wrap around mugs of tea that are lukewarm at best, but neither signal for an avox to bring a fresh cup. While they don't speak, they seem content in each other's company.

Gabbro, the oldest mentor and the coordinator of the team is at a last minute alliance meeting with the victor from District 12. He left with a skeptical frown two hours ago and hasn't returned.

Dressed in a long gown, labeled 'wine red' but could just as easily have been 'blood red', Enobaria left for a date. Before she went, she spent at least ten minutes brushing and polishing the gold caps on her teeth. Fallon left at the same time, dressed in a shirt of a similar color, unbuttoned to show most of his chest. When Clove smirked and asked if they were dating, they both gave a forced laugh.

"I wish," Enobaria had said, and Fallon shrugged sadly.

Lance is sleeping in one of the luxurious bedrooms. He staggered home at five in the morning, muttering something about a hens' night, and he hasn't emerged since.

Nobody asks Shara out on dates. She hasn't been the same since her games, fifteen years ago. But nobody can doubt that her tactics are brilliant, and she seems to understand what drives people better than any of the other mentors do. Often though, nobody likes to hear what she says; it's too true, it cuts too deep and sometimes she is down right cruel. Until the games start, the tributes and other mentors try to stay out of her way. Luckily, she keeps to herself.

The large screen, which makes up one wall of the living room, hums quietly, but the volume is off. It casts a soft, flickering glow into the room, in complete contrast to the images on it. That they are silent seems to make them even more violent.

On separate couches, Cato and Clove keep a careful distance. It is like this with most tributes, at least the night before the games. Each is trapped in their own thoughts, and there is little that can be done to further prepare, still, it feels good to be doing something.

They watch the finales of some of the games. Some years, the finale is not worth watching; it is a mismatched battle, or an anticlimax. They don't bother to look at the 72nd games, because what can they learn from watching a scrawny little boy from the outer districts drown while the girl from District 4 laughs as she treads water, circling him like a shark. But there are plenty they do watch.

Cato hooks one leg over the couch and leans back against it. He tries to appear at ease. In contrast, Clove sits primly, devoting all her attention to the screen. Now, they watch a younger version of Brutus grapple with his District partner, and though they've seen the footage before, both of them resist the temptation to close their eyes as he fits a rock into his fist and brings it down on her face, again, and again, even after the canon has fired and the trumpets begin to bare out. By the time he is finished, his face is splattered with blood, and he licks his lips without thinking.

Cato glances sideways at Clove, but she directs all her attention forwards. He wonders if she's thinking that the pair on screen could easily be them. Cato knows the Clove wouldn't hesitate to kill him. He's always known that, and he hopes that he'd do the same.

"That won't be me," Clove said quietly, more to herself than Cato.

"Sure," Cato mutters, but his sarcasm doesn't quite meet the mark.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Your birthday fic is now complete, Ella. I hope you enjoy the last chapter. There is a little more Clato for you, though maybe not quite what you were expecting. **

**Prompt: 'faster' from the Nova Challenge at Caesar's Palace**

4. The Arena

The sunset is a violent and painful event. There is nothing of the peaceful passing of the sun to the land where it goes to rest; it is a primal struggle. Shafts of light fly like spears flung with malice, into the tributes' eyes. They are forced to shield their faces from the unnatural power of the sun's dying rays.

Every color is too intense to be found in nature. They have been enhanced past the point of believability, at least, for someone who has seen a real sunset. The pinks are so fiery they are nearly red, and the reds are darkened and deepened until they look like blood. The purples are bruise colored; dark and painful, while the oranges are fluorescent and hurt the eye.

It is what the Capitol citizens think they want. Their own city lights dim the real sunsets to a pale copy and now they want to see what they think the real thing is. But the gamemakers can't stop there, not until they've butchered the natural beauty.

Why would they leave alone the beauty of a sunset when they have tarnished so much else? Every year, in the factories of District 5, the innocent embryos of various creatures are spliced and pumped full of hormones until they are born, unrecognizable. One of the prototypes in the experimental stage is a creature from legend, ancient even before the dark days. So far, they have had limited success splicing the teeth of the nearly extinct Komodo dragon to the lithe Arabian horse.

After reaching a fiery climax that makes the whole western sky appear to be bleeding and bruised, the sunset fades rapidly, the colors leaching away. Familiar stars appear, all at once as if they were turned on with the flick of a switch. They probably were.

Unlike the sunset, the stats are not as blatantly false. Familiar constellations, among them, the maiden, the pot and the hunter, grace the sky. Each is in perfectly natural alignment with their celestial cousins. Yet there is something that is not quite right. Each star is perhaps too uniform, and shines a little too brightly. It makes nighttime in the arena a good time for hunting.

Now though, the careers are not hunting. They wait at the base of a tall tree, doing their best to ignore the girl in it, and look nonchalant. Though, every now and then, one of them does look up, and the sandy haired boy from District 12 most often. The others do better to hide the attention they pay her.

It is obvious that they had not expected to be away from the golden horn for a night. Between the six of them, there are two sleeping bags. District 2 and 1 quickly claimed these, despite not being the ones who remembered to bring them, just in case. Mer, from District 4, looked like putting up a fight, but without her district partner, killed in the bloodbath, she could not face the other pairs. Peeta didn't complain, merely sat down where he could look up into the branches of the tree.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Cato glances around the camp quickly. He does not miss the venomous look Mer shoots him; she is on watch, hunkered down close by the fire. Good, he thinks, at least being cold will make sure she keeps awake and keeps the fire going. Loverboy is still awake too, not even pretending to sleep. His breath appears frosty in the night.

On the other side of the fire, Glimmer and Marvel are snuggled right down in the sleeping bag until only the top of their heads are visible. Blonde hair mingles until it's impossible to tell which is which. He wonders if they're sleeping, or just touching quietly. He can't imagine Marvel making Glimmer cry out, and the thought curves his lips into a mirthless smile.

"You going to lie down?" Clove asks peevishly.

In response, Cato shifts over in the sleeping bag, making the fabric rustle, until he lies on top of Clove. "That better?" he asks.

"Get the fuck off," she growls, "I can't even breathe."

"How about now?" Cato leans down to crush hips lips against hers, shoving his tongue against them, because she doesn't open her mouth. Instead, she tries to free her hands to shove him away. In the cramped sleeping bag, she can't even get the leverage and Cato laughs.

"Fuck off, Cato," she spits. Her hand slides down her thigh but Cato can feel what she's doing; he can feel the sheath of knives against his leg. He grabs her wrist and hauls it up above her head, leaning his weight down on it.

"You don't want to?" he sneers. "You've been fucking leading me on all week! You frigid or something?"

"No!" Clove snarls.

"Would you shut up," Marvel snaps from is sleeping bag, but his voice lacks conviction and Cato ignores it.

"Prove it," Cato says, in a low voice.

"Fine."

Cato rolls off enough to let her unzip the rough pants that are their arena costume. He does the same for himself and pushes them down to his knees.

"Take your top off," he says.

"No, it's bloody freezing."

"Fine," Cato grumbles, but he shoves his hands up under her shirt anyway, forcing up the wire of her bra until he can touch her small breasts. Her nipples contract quickly from the cold of his skin, or his touch.

It's over pretty quickly. Amid the rustling and straining of the sleeping bag's seams, Cato takes her as hard as he can, pushing himself faster until he's panting and sweat forms a sheen on his forehead. Clove just lies there. He does it because today's been full of anxiety and disappointment, and he does it because he doesn't have to think.

Clove never makes a sound, and when he rolls off her, she quietly zips up her pants and turns to face away from him. Cato lets his breathing return to normal.

"Thanks, for that," he mutters.

"It's fine." Her voice is muffled.

"That was your first time, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Clove's voice sounds as if she has snuggled her face into the sleeping bag.

"Sorry, maybe next time I could-"

"Just forget about it, Cato. Go to sleep."


End file.
